On @fart’s impotence during the most grave humor crisis in the history of his Weird Twitter empire

Oh, @fart. Look at what you’ve done. You pecked your way out of your pink little shell, betrayed your mother, scuttled off to found some other roost and now big bad Sam man takes out his irony gun and fires “faggot” into your “weird” compatriots, who.. die, as far as Gordon Lish is concerned (re: sincerity. It’s in the quote section of his Wikipedia entry). Time to wipe that Kaufman off of your chin, guy. The wounded you purport to appreciate need your guidance. Your empire is fractured, threatening to implode on itself, its identity thrown into disarray. What values will emerge from the rubble, if any? This is Weird Twitter’s 9/11, and you ignore these matters of crucial existential importance to tweet about buttholes and hamburgers. Him name is “George ‘@fart’ Bush”.

Regardless. The unfortunately built acne man with bad facial hair has torn the mask off your nu-irony movement, using weapons you helped develop years ago. The response was to blush and fume. The original sin of sincerity has been transgressed. The seal has been broken, with it a movement set to wither. All the dildo and bug jokes belie a deep and bubbling spring full of hot care and mad. People are talking about diaries and Aunts and Matthew freakin’ Shepard. Tears, smoke, chaos. The fox has entered the hen house full of hens in fox costumes, who flee in a cowardly hurricane of feather and straw. Time to eat a egg, says the fox. Or two dozen, perhaps? Now that’s irony.

And where are you now, @fart? You are the reason this event took place. You are the Freder (Metropolis reference) of Weird Twitter, bridging the Weird (humor) with the Twitter (shit). Graey Alien resides on one end; Rob Delaney on the other. One provides the talent; the other the means for delivering exposure. You facilitate the exchange, and now seas of bearded white goobers, hopped up on inspiration from pictures of tree burls sent to Kim Kardashian, ape the style, but apply conventional dressing, massing in night clubs to recite sad shadows of content more inspired than anything they could hope to create. This fractious dichotomy cannot maintain. These are the sheltered children of Delaney, reared in the comedy suburbs, and you have led them to their My Lai. And now. You’re silent.

I know, @fart, in your doughy little heart, FYAD still echoes. You watched the video. You suppressed your amusement. Your timeline makes no mention of the incident. Your diplomacy indicts you. Say something. You govern over these people. You made that choice. Provide comfort and direction. Take inventory of what you’ve become and fill your role. You’re textin’ cute and often with Buzzfeed editors. You and Fogelnest frottage and crack wise over the inanities of pop culture, oblivious to your inclusion in that same inanity, like a bad VH1 venture, Best Week Ever — oppa Gangman style!! Jon fucking Cryer follows you. What are you doing? You’re a brand instead of a humorist. And if you listen close to the laughter you’re earning from your now affected sense of humor, you’ll hear some of a more deep and sinister timbre. That’s me, @fart. For I am the ghost. I am the phantom. I know you, and I see you.